The Uncertainty Principle
by kayjeanes
Summary: Sherlock returns to England to begin his new life when a certain part of his previous life begins to leak through: John Watson. The same John who watched him fall to his death, and the same John who is now marrying a beautiful blonde from central London. The Work never stops, and Sherlock needs his blogger by his side.
1. The Invitation

**A/N: I have been dabbling with this idea for a while, seeing as it has been many years since I penned my last fanfic. Set Post-Reichenbach, I wanted to compose the story of Sherlock and John to tide myself over until series three.**

**I have reread this many times, but alas, I am almost positive it will be rife with errors, so please feel free to help me catch the errors of late night writing.**

_Faint stains upon lapel. Crumbs collected on trousers. A faint scent: fruity, hint of tart - most likely raspberry. Viscosity of leftovers on china indicates jam. A tenacious scent of sweetness, certainly not sugar free, then. _

"The diet is failing miserably, I see." Sherlock smirked at his older brother who, in the early morning hours, refused to dignify him with a response. Mycroft offered only a cursory glare over the top of his folio before returning to whatever business had awoken him early. Dramatically, throwing his arms out and bending back over the edge of the posh chaise lounge, Sherlock held his hand out for the folio.

Begrudgingly, Mycroft handed it over, moving to dust himself off while Sherlock read through the file - _A despot on the run then? Central Africa judging by the terrain and the thick foliage. Aided by those who feared him, obvio__usly__: vacant stares, evidence of nervous movement and patterns amongst the men, the wide berth given to their__ seemingly invisible__ captor. Except for one__..._

"He's dressing like them then? Disturbing the feeble minds of the morally responsible. I take it your men are unwilling to shoot all of them? Boring." Sherlock laid the folio on the table, nodding toward Mycroft in the ornate golden mirror upon the mahogany walls.

"Yes, well, diplomacy was never your strong suit, was it? When you do my job, Sherlock," Sherlock produced a splendidly sour look at the very thought. "you're tasked with working both efficiently and...favorably. To appease the commoners."

A noise of disgust rumbled low in Sherlock's throat. As Mycroft turned to leave the room, Sherlock swung himself upright and directed his words at his brother's back, "I'm bored."

Tutting audibly, Mycroft turned around, producing a knowing smile, "I'd suggest you become more helpful then."

Two years had passed since Sherlock removed himself from public light, feigning his suicide from the top of St. Bartholomew's. He moved frequently in the previous years, getting into spots of trouble in Central America and the Pacific Islands, awaiting his return to England and normalcy of sorts. It didn't take long to realize he lacked the resources to dispose of Moriarty's men, and much to his displeasure, he informed Mycroft of his ruse. Mycroft then busied himself with the decimation of Moriarty's criminal network, claiming rather brightly that it had been a boost in his already esteemed career. Sherlock returned to England six months previously, hoping to rekindle a new sort of life in the shadows.

However, Mycroft seemed intent on locking him up in his upscale country estate. The fresh scent of the wild moors strangled Sherlock's ingenuity at every turn, so he had taken to prowling around the house at all hours of the night. He spent the first few weeks stripping his fully furnished room bare, leaving only the bed with the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets, a rather pedestrian bookshelf, and a battered old desk belonging to their grandfather. At first, Mycroft expressed his frustration openly with Sherlock's disdain - "Now really, Sherlock, those are perfectly nice drapes, imported from the heart of the Persian market itself!" - but even that ceased when he came home one evening to find bullet holes in a hand carved antique cupboard dating to the Victorian era. Since then, Sherlock busied himself constantly with research and experimentation, but it was a far cry from the thrill of deduction, the dangerous chase of the unknown, the hearty, breathy laugher of John...

John persisted in his mind like a black hole, sucking all quick and reasonable deductions down the drain. Once, he found himself backed into the corner by a particularly vicious cocaine dealer with whom he was attempting to settle a gambling score. How was he supposed to know that counting the cards was illegal? It appeared to be the reasonable approach to the situation. He supposed now he should have paid more notice to the knife in his hand, but John was a quick enough shot to negate the problem efficiently.

Except there was no John and his escape slowed significantly from a superficial knife wound to the shoulder. He left Colombia the next day with one of Mycroft's henchmen for sunny Panama.

He calculated John into every move he made. For months, he tried to solve minor crimes in crime-riddled countries, always urging John to make note of something or asking him to send a text. The sudden derailment, the knowledge that he watched him lay flowers upon his own grave months previously, sucked everything from his mind leaving nothing but the grappling hole of emptiness in its wake. Eventually he moved John to the depths of his mind, never daring to quite delete him but leaving him untouched in the rear of his thoughts. The memory of him persevered more than the others - Lestrade, who he let go in a sweltering cafe to the scent of cheap cigars and sticky cologne, Mrs. Hudson, who he let go in a Indonesian market as he purchased a cherise scarf, Molly, who he let go in a morgue in Lima, Peru where a plucky young woman provided him a sample of infected digits. But John, well, John just had to stay.

Since his return to England, he steered clear of inquiring about the state of John with Mycroft, knowing full well the knowing smile that would cross his face. Even Mycroft was not immune to the powerful assumption that John was...what? His partner? Lover? Soulmate? In all his years, Sherlock loved no one, remaining entirely objective even in his own life. He viewed himself as a catalyst of a remarkable brain, unwilling to submit to humanity, doing more than the basic human could dream. That alone was reason enough to let John go, but still, he held onto the sight of him, his foolish deductions, the stern look following a kill, the smile that played over a thousand times. John eluded him, a mystery in himself, yet he would never discover how an ordinary man made him even more extraordinary.

The fall, the fall. The day he lied to save John's life, begged him to destroy the remaining vestiges of his memory. John never faltered. In the following months, he monitored British news outlets, waiting for even the least scandalous story to break. From the mouth of the sidekick, it might say, the friend. But never did a story break. Silence following his suicide. To his knowledge, John told no one about Sherlock's death bed confession.

Deciding quickly that he could not bear to sit in the house all day, he padded along behind Mycroft, making his way into the garden. He hoped to chat with a rather intriguing head gardener, Joaquim, who spoke in a soft voice riddled with the Kriol of the southern Belize, a dialect he picked up during his travels. Looking around to see no Joaquim on the cloudy day, he sat himself up the bench nearest the entryway, pulling a pocket journal chronicling his most recent experiment.

_Labored breathing. Expensive cologne, applied recently for work. Scent of fresh fine clothing. The careful steps, indicating...anger? No. Nervousness is more likely. Tapping of the fingers indicates that much. _

"What?" His baritone voice drawled. He quickly looked to see Mycroft standing, clad in a different suit and clearly late for his business of the day.

"I think congratulations for your dearest friend may be in order. Apparently, I received an invitation yesterday to quite the occasion three months from tomorrow." Mycroft shuffled his feet, determinedly staring across the moors.

"I have no friends, Mycroft." Sherlock returned his attention to his book of experiments, flipping the page aggressively in the hopes that Mycroft would stomp of in lieu of dealing with a temper tantrum on a busy morning. "Glad to see that you decided to change, though. Wouldn't want to seem slovenly as you restore the Empire to imperial status."

Mycroft forced a white envelope into Sherlock's fingers. _Finer paper than common, still not expensive. Smells of lilac, perhaps the touch of a woman. _He opened the envelope, removing the stockier paper from within. _Heavy, detailed typeface. Obviously an invitation of sorts. White and lighter colors - mint green - indicates a joyous occasion of some sort._

"A wedding then? I can hardly mingle with the populace, Mycroft. You'll have to face this social charade alone, I'm afraid." Sherlock sat it beside him on the bench.

"You've missed something, Sherlock."

Unable to withstand the challenge, he grabbed the invitation again, taking it in deeply with his eyes, "The hand which filled the envelopes was light, yet deft. Obviously accustomed to moving with some technical skill, yet, hesitancy where the envelope was closed as if the sender was unsure whether to send it to you. I doubt the mark appears on the others." He smirked at Mycroft who waved him off again. Returning to the envelope, "It smells of lilac but not strongly, indicating a dubious groom pulled into wedding preparation, perhaps unwilling to smell of lilac on his way out. Mark on the envelope leads us to a post box, I'm sure, in the middle of London. There is no indication it was mailed with the others. Perhaps mailed in secrecy?" A rough laugh, "Oh, Mycroft, you naughty boy, you should probably stay away from the wedding of a certain," he addressed the first name of the young lady, "a Miss Mary Morstan and..." He consulted the envelope again, "a Mr. John Watson."

The glee slid from his face suddenly; he began to run his fingers over the surface where John's fingers had fumbled so recently with the envelope. He studied it, gathering no further information from it. "How did this come to be, exactly?"

Mycroft looked taken aback at the affrontation, "And how am I supposed to know? I have made sure your...partner...was watched, but I maintain little to no contact with him. After all, I'm sure he blamed me for your demise. Hence the hesitancy about sending the invitation to the brother of his dearly deceased best friend."

Sherlock stood, suddenly a whirl of confusion, yelling at Mycroft, "I need more data! Who is this," consulting the invitation again, having already deleted her name, "Mary Morstan? Where did John meet her? John dates; that's it. A bachelor of sorts. You can't have danger with marriage and children. Oh, John, what have you done?" His irritation evident, Mycroft attempted to lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder which Sherlock immediately shrugged off.

"If, and this is placing an extraordinary amount of faith in him, he figured out that I defeated my own fate, this could be entrapment, his way of discerning from you whether his deductions are correct or incorrect." Sherlock shook his head, "But that's wasteful and sloppy. Far too many steps. Perhaps I should just go by myself. Eliminate the middleman."

"Sherlock!" Mycroft grabbed him by the narrow shoulders forcing him to look him in the eyes, "Don't be unreasonable just because you wish to return to your old life. Look at this invite. He's reaching out to me in his time of joy. He's saying that he has forgiven me. He moved on, Sherlock. The work you did together is in the past now. We will find you a new place here, but leave him be."

Turning from his brother to the door, he flashed a smile, acknowledging that he had not comprehended a single piece of advice offered to him, "We'll let him make that decision."

John Watson placed a kettle onto boil, preparing his evening tea. He hoped the effects of returning to regular work on his feet would abate eventually. After the late night with Mary the previous evening, he could feel the bed calling him but could not concede without a nice cup of tea to settle the anxiety in his chest.

There had been a certain type of finality as he placed an invitation to Mycroft in the mail onto work yesterday morning. Knowing his penchant for snooping around, he figured a mysterious black sedan would show up one evening on his doorstep, sweeping him away to an undisclosed location where Mycroft would demand to know the details of his impending nuptials. Even worse, he would turn up to the wedding, knowing he'd never be turned away and ruining all of Mary's hard work.

John rubbed his fingers across his face. _Mary. _Sweet, beautiful Mary, a governess to an affluent family in central London. She thought the world of him, pontificating his skill, bravery, and intellect to everyone to whom she had introduced him. Mary tolerated, very patiently he thought, his fascination with that last adventure with Sherlock Holmes. Try as he might, he knew he would never figure out the causes behind Sherlock's decision to end his life that fateful day, but he searched through every avenue and possibility in the days following.

And when he was ready, there was Mary, blond locks shining on a rare sunny London day outside of a newspaper kiosk. They reached for the same paper with a ridiculously sensationalist headline concerning the jubilee for the Queen. Somehow, they ended up in a small coffeeshop that one would most likely pass by on an ordinary day, but the day was extraordinary and there was Mary. Sweet Mary who stunned him with her wit and brilliance as they talked late into the evening.

Six months of dating had followed, and gradually, her stuff found a place in his new flat. She breathed life into it, turning it into a home for them both. Slowly, he shoved Sherlock and his previous life at 221B Baker Street to the back of his mind, never quite forgetting it but closing the hole left in his life all the same. One evening with Mary in a particularly stunning beige lace dress, John took her to revisit their hole-in-the-wall coffee shop, and he proposed. She gleefully accepted, and their life together began.

The weeks following found Mary officially moving all of her possessions into his flat, and they were some of the happiest weeks of his life. Though he was no longer running around London chasing criminals and deviants of sorts, he hardly ever found himself bored with the regular life they led together. After over a year had passed since Sherlock's death, he finally managed to find purpose.

As he sat upon their new couch to drink his nightly tea, Mary padded out of their bedroom and joined him on the couch. Feeling no need to speak immediately, she ran her fingers across his scalp and down the nape of his neck for several minutes. He closed his eyes at the feeling, sipping slowly on the tea. She placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"So, did you ever get to mail off the invitation you thought I wouldn't miss?" She shrewdly asked, drawing her lips into a knowing smile.

"Ah, Mary, I hoped I might pull the wool over those beautiful eyes for once." A quick look from her told him she would not drop the question because of a well-rehearsed line. "Alright, yes, I did. It's to an old...acquaintance. Certainly not a friend, but he's well connected. I thought it best to spare us from an uninvited guest."

"Does this guest have anything in common with Sherlock?" Sometimes there were disturbing similarities between Mary and the aforementioned consulting detective.

"Can't slip anything past you, can I? Alright, yes. This guest might be Sherlock's older brother. We had a complicated relationship, mostly revolving around handling Sherlock. His name is Mycroft. He pulls an impressive amount of leverage with the British government. I had a feeling he might be surveilling me to check on me." He placed a gentle hand on the soft skin of Mary's check. "I figured an invitation would be a definitive way of informing him _myself _that I am more than okay."

Mary grabbed his hand, rubbing her fingers across the top of his hand, "That's fine, John. I figured as much. You don't have to be so secretive about that time in your life. You're John because of what happened. Invite whomever you wish. Just don't try to hide it from a bride-to-be who micromanages every part of her wedding." A quick chortle, emphasizing her lack of anger with him. "You'll lose."

Mary moved toward their kitchen to grab a cup of tea for herself when she turned back toward him, an inquisitive look upon her face, "Still though."

John placed his cooling tea on the coffee table, looking to see her body framed in the doorway. "Yes?"

"There were two of them? You've told me plenty about Sherlock, and I just can't imagine it."

John thought back to his many meetings in secret with Mycroft. The tense and comical relationship between the two brothers. For the first time since Sherlock's death, he smiled at the memory of his former life.

"You don't want to."

Laying in the shadows of the evening light, Sherlock stared intensely at the tin laid ceiling in his bedroom, thinking wistfully of 221B Baker Street with its damask wall, littered with bullet holes and the smiley face for a hint of whimsy. His travels took him far away from home - for wasn't that what 221B had been? Even this luxurious estate where he spent his childhood always felt like a museum. Then boarding school with its bunk beds to maximize profit. Then university with its dull roommates, always moving to get away from him. Then flats, always similar with unwilling landlords and eviction notices. Then 221B where no one yelled because of body parts or the mess. Where no one questioned the life he led. Where there had been John with tea and a union flag pillow in his chair.

John who was now marrying a governess to an affluent family. Who shared an apartment with her in East London which they decorated together. Who stuffed lilac scented envelopes bringing the tidings of his falsified joy. Who worked in a clinic where little action occurred. Who appeared to be bored into the decision to procreate.

Sherlock grimaced at the disgusting thought of procreation - a process involving such intimate contact with the genitals of a woman was enough to make him consider other thoughts. Like quantum physics. Schrodinger's equation. Schrodinger. Schrodinger's Cats. Cats.

Did John and Mary have a cat? A pet, together? He grabbed for the file he found in Mycroft's desk (Who hides the key in a shrubbery? Other than everyone, that is?), searching through it for more information. It did not appear they owned a pet, but the knot in his chest tied itself even tighter still.

_No, _he thought, sinking back into the sheets of his bed, _I can never quite delete John. _


	2. In Interim

**A/N: Three months separate The Invitation and The Wedding. In Interim begins to explain how John, Sherlock, and all the others get from Point A to Point B in that time.**

**As always, all errors are my own and are open to correction. **

John moved the smoked salmon around on his plate, staring fitfully out the window of their flat. Mary took a couple of small bites with the hope that eating herself might encourage him, but with every glance at him, the chance of John eating grew smaller and smaller still. Never in their time together had she observed John in such a fitful state of grief, and though she had often wished in the past to have known him longer, she knew now those months following the death of his best friend would have been unbearable. He had wandered their flat at night for the past week, and it showed in the dark circles lining the underside of his eyes. He needed to rest.

"John," Mary pushed her plate away, fixing her eyes on his staunch profile, "have I ever told you what happened to my father?"

John shook his head, slowly, never leaving the dancing street lights from outside the window. Mary shuffled her feet and removed the remnants of their failed dinner from the table to allow herself time to gather her thoughts, cloudy from many years of disuse. No other relationship had commanded such honesty about her father's death.

"John Watson, there have been many things that attracted me to you, but overall, those things I love the most belonged to my father. You knew he was in the military, and he was born for danger and intrigue." John glanced at her for a minute, the shadow of a memory crossing his face that he obviously did not care to share with her. "Like you."

"He loved us, though, my mum and me. We followed him wherever he went when I was a child." Mary continued, despite the setback. "There was too little danger for him, so when fate provided him a chance at active duty, he took it. I was fifteen when he headed to Iraq, a place he described with reverence and excitement in all of our phone calls. I'd like to say that he missed me, but I think that he had missed the danger even more."

"So time passed as it does when someone you love has left you. Slowly, his calls were a joy and not a necessity for me. I was sixteen. There was a knock at the door in the early evening, and the smell of damp spring followed the two soldiers into our living room where they dirtied my mother's favorite rug. I was working at his writing desk on an assignment for my history class, and I turned around just in time to see my mother hit the floor."

Mary placed the dishes into the sink, running hot water over them to wash off the remaining debris of food. At some point, John turned toward her and began to watch her with mild interest for the first time in days. She returned to his side, claiming the chair next to him and gathering his trembling hands into her own. Running her fingertips down the side of his palm, she returned to her story.

"My mother always possessed a flair of the dramatic, and there it was." Mary focused on the wall in a distant way. "She left me to discuss funeral arrangements with the men, and at that time, it was like planning the funeral for a stranger who had lived in my house and memories only. I planned for him to be brought home and buried in the family plot. I planned for a short visitation. After the planning, I played the dutiful daughter." A soft chuckle issued from her throat. "I loved my father, John, but he never comprehended what chasing adventure would do to his family. We weren't gone, but we were alienated. 'A good family man,' they called him. A good man might have been correct. The forces are no place for a father, John. Neither is the fight of good versus evil. The moral versus the immoral."

John grasped her hand, a guilty look in his eyes, "I never knew, Mary. I should have asked. I'm sorry."

She waved him off, running her fingers across his chin, "I mourned him later, John. After the funeral and after I placed his ghost into the cold ground. I mourned over pictures and memories. For years, they were a constant barrage. A photograph of him dragging me behind him in a wagon in front of one of our many houses. The memory of his cheap cologne. The stories he chose to tell me before bed each night. Those things I might mourn forever, and I believe that's okay."

Mary placed a gentle kiss upon his lips that were dry and cracking from dehydration, "John, you never have to say anything. I saw all of him in you, even the danger. Your friend occupied all of the news channels for months before and after his suicide, and you followed him like you were lost. You fought at his side even after leaving the army. I know you believe in Sherlock Holmes, and I believe that's okay too." She rubbed his stubble again, trailing kisses on his cheek, "Let me mourn him with you."

John pulled away from her, uncertainty in his eyes and voice when he spoke. "You want to know about Sherlock?"

Mary smiled, strands of blonde hair falling in her face, "You have told me enough for me to paint a picture of the way he saved you once you were a civilian once more. I could care less what everyone has to say about him; I want to know why you miss him so much, so I can miss him too. Tell me the truth."

She pulled John to their couch earnestly, resting his head in her lap. John searched for words to describe the ache for Sherlock in his chest: the screeching of the violin in the middle of the night, the adrenaline crash following a chase, Sherlock's admonitions toward everyone's average intellect, the sunlight reflected by the mad curls on his head, the foolish way he deprived himself of so much. He closed his eyes, taking the warmth of Mary in as she ran her fingers across his scalp, and he thanked god for his army tailored ability to control his emotions.

"Sherlock was absolutely daft. Amazing, but daft. He refused to eat for days, often practically dragging me along for the ride. I could hide nothing from him, and I was hardly allowed to know anything of him. He hated control. He hated the ordinary. Nothing we did was ordinary. He kept body parts in our refrigerator." Mary produced an audible sound of both disbelief and disgust. "Yeah, I know. He was fierce, Sherlock Holmes and somewhat dedicated. Somehow simultaneously ghastly and impressive at the violin. Worst cup of tea in the world; I guess it was too mundane. His mind was a palace, and I was lucky to be permitted to look in."

John sighed, rubbing his hand roughly across his tired eyes, "I miss everything, Mary. Two years ago today, I watched him walk off the edge of a building and hit the pavement. I checked for a pulse, but it was gone. Soon he was gone, and I was left sitting in a puddle of his blood. Left to clean up his mess. I'd love for the chance to pound him into a bloody pulp for that because I will never believe the things he said. I could never do the things he asked me to do."

John forced him into a sitting position when he heard a whimper issue from Mary's mouth. Tears fell silently from her eyes to her lap as she held out her arms for a hug. He crawled willingly into them and rested his head upon Mary's shoulder, sharing his tears and grief with her. She slowly hiccuped herself into composure and glanced at him with a smile.

"He sounds atrocious."

oOoOoOo

"Mycroft, welcome home, lovely." Sherlock scathed from the sitting room. Mycroft slowed in exasperation to peer in from the hallway. Sherlock was throwing knives at the gorgeous oak paneling he had procured a few years previously, sticking the knives in precisely the parts of the woodgrain he loved so much.

"Could you at least refrain from destroying everything you touch, my esteemed brother?" Mycroft dropped his briefcase on a baroque era desk before crossing the room in irritation to pry the kitchen knives from the wall. Another landed above his head neatly which delivered a breathy chuckle from the younger Holmes.

"Accuracy is not your strongest attribute, Sherlock!" Mycroft wrenched the final knife from the wall and turned toward his brother. "Can't you research some mundane and unimportant subject like you have been? 'The Significance of Gutter Flora and Fauna in Suburban Murders' or '142 Interactions of Lye and Flesh?' or some other trite?"

"I'm bored, Mycroft. I hardly think I have ever been this bored. Not even during our childhood feasts." He tossed himself down on the antique sofa, fiercely running his spindly fingers through his overgrown curls. "How long does it take to set up a new life for such an important citizen?"

A scoff from Mycroft, as he flattened his suit in the front "You're flattering yourself. It had to be done with much privacy and secrecy, Sherlock. People don't move boulders when I'm unwilling to tell them why they are moving them; it's much more akin to moving pebbles to create a canyon. A forgery of this nature must practically evolve itself into truth. We cannot be certain that we extinguished all those loyal to Moriarty, and I cannot assure your safety outside of this house."

Sherlock seethed silently as Mycroft slid into an armchair, rubbing his fingers over his temples, "Besides, I do not enjoy living in your presence either. Your very existence extinguishes every desire for the continuation of our lineage. After all, what if I procreated and created another small version of you? The whole dirty business to end up in possession of an insolent and limited genius? I shall pass."

He tossed a dirty look at Mycroft who shrugged it off. "You were an atrocious child, Sherlock. I pretended some semblance of normalcy for our poor parents, but you refused to understand the need for some decorum and taste. Perhaps we both lack some natural form of politeness, but goodness, Sherlock, you could have tried, instead of holing up inside your own head while our mother attempted to cover your tracks."

Sherlock sat up abruptly, "What about the time you broke my microscope? That was impolite, and you didn't pretend it was."

Mycroft huffed at being drug into their childhood drama once more, "It stained the desk our grandfather left me. I was older and needed the space for correspondence and self-improvement. That proved difficult with bleached stains and god only knows what else left on the surface. The breaking of the microscope, however, was one of those unfortunate accidents that just happen on occasion. Instead of accepting my condolences on the loss of your experiment, you interrupted our parents' benefit dinner to demand reparations for putting up with me. As a 10 year old boy, you should have known how to conduct yourself. The bruising that occurred from dragging you forcefully from the dining hall, on the other hand, was not accidental."

"Anyway," Mycroft stood to retreat to privacy, "you lived on to torment all of those who came in contact with you. You tormented our parents until their dying breaths. Now, you spend endless days tormenting me. You will have a new set of people to torment soon enough. I am so tired of it afterall."

Mycroft shut the door with gentleness but not before another knife buried itself into it. Sherlock leered over the top of the couch, "Accident."

The chill emanated between the brothers at the next morning's breakfast. Closer inspection of the sitting room resigned Mycroft to not replace the ruined paneling until _after _Sherlock left, presumably to never bother him again. He smiled at the thought and dug deeper into his crumpets. Sherlock, having had an exhausting night imagining stabbing wooden people, nibbled on a portion of his food, cradling his tea in his hands. Two looks at Mycroft allowed him to deduce enough about Mycroft's evening to annoy the elder Holmes: _bloodshot eyes indicative of late work, consumption of less food indicative of a late night trip to his favorite room of the house, two paracetamol indicative of nursing an alcoholic beverage in his overgrown stomach instead of something hydrating (Probably scotch. 'The Temperature of Burning Scotch as an Accelerate - in conjunction with a study human flesh melting points and a study of ironic means to murder the wealthy.'), pupil size retracted significantly overnight indicative of self pleasure just before bed. _

"Was she good last night?" Sherlock called to the other end of the dining table. Mycroft offered him no acknowledgement. "Or he? I hardly know of your tastes."

Mycroft placed a folio softly on the table before placing his intelligent face on pitch hands to stare at Sherlock, "What are you on about now, Sherlock?"

"Your hand, Mycroft. Try to be more discreet about your affairs." Sherlock devoured a crumpet slowly, reveling in catching Mycroft off-guard. _For once, _he thought bitterly. "Do not make the foolish assumption that I know nothing of sexual intimacy, Mycroft. It is well documented and primal. A menial motive for murder and all too common. Pupil dilation and retraction. Elevated pulse. Flushed appearance. Something upset your normal calm last night, and you have returned to normal this morning. You attended to important business first and yourself last out of exhaustion rather than pleasure. We are all more vulnerable before and after sleep. Do wake up more quickly next time."

He stood up from the table, wiping invisible crumbs from his immaculate suit. "Plus, drink some water. I know it is not in your personal dietary restrictions, but dear god, how else do you get rid of a hangover? One day will hardly reverse you to an acceptable body mass."

oOoOoOo

John stopped at the entrance to the cemetery, and the decision to allow Mary to "meet" Sherlock became more absurd the closer to his grave they travelled. Last night, curled up next to her naked body, the sentiment blew him away with its beauty and her definite acceptance of his innocence brought joy to his heart. Her assurances she would have learned to love him touched him also. On the way to the cemetery, however, he grew skeptical of sharing Sherlock with her and standing at the edge of the beautiful green, he was suddenly certain he could hear Sherlock's baritone chuckle at their assertion that he could hear them.

Mary grabbed John's hand and locked her sedan with the remote. She sensed his apprehension and pulled him just past the gate. Slowly John grew accustomed to the idea that he was supposed to share his life with his future wife, and he led the way to Sherlock's tombstone willingly. They stopped in front of the dark stone and collected themselves. Mary reached for the daisies half crushed by John's grasp and placed them at the foot of the stone, and she rubbed a finger tentatively over the engraving before returning to an upright position.

Silence fell around them on the chilly day as they took in the sight of themselves together, attempting to recapture the pieces of their lives together. John had seldom felt so relieved as when Mary failed to hold in her uncontrollable laughter, leaning her hand on Sherlock's tombstone for support. He smiled deeply and patted her on the back, chuckling himself.

"He would hate this, wouldn't he?" She asked, pushing her hair behind her ears. "You and me, standing at his grave and trying to reach him all the way in the Great Unknown?"

The wrinkles on John's forehead became more pronounced with his smile, "Oh god, yes."

Mary settled herself on the ground in front of Sherlock's tombstone, "Go away, John. He will just have to listen to me now. I'm sure you never got such an opportunity when he could talk back."

With a smile, she shooed John away. He walked diligently and carefully around the graves of others, feeling less at home than Mary did amongst the dead obviously. He leaned against a tree far enough away from Mary that he could watch her but not overhear what she was saying. More than once, she leaned in and touched the tombstone like she did her own friends on their nights out. He attempted to imagine the things she might say to his deceased friend, but his ideas dead-ended in anger and patronisation. Clearly, she felt none of this things with her jovial and open chat, similar to those they shared after a few drinks.

The thought of Sherlock and Mary drinking together, discussing him in a pub, forced a smile onto his face. As much as Sherlock may have hated Mary, it would have never continued; he knew Mary would refuse to be disliked, and Sherlock would eventually have to cave to her obvious charisma. They had both been too honest for their own good and clever in their own ways. He had just begun to believe they might have phased him out to fight crime on their own when she called for him.

She looked pleased with her graveside chat and offered John a kiss when he returned to her side. "Would you like to say something to him? I know it's not really him, but it's not nearly as strange as doing it over a cup of tea or in the shower. At least some of him is still here." She gestured toward the grave with a tilt of her head. "Not that I judge you for talking to him occasionally, but this is a smidgen more normal."

Mary patted him on the shoulder and walked toward their car with the sun shining off her blonde locks. He turned toward the grave and shuffled his feet. The last time he talked to Sherlock's tombstone he had just buried him, and it had resulted in an awkwardness that prevailed in his heart for weeks. He was clueless as to what to say after two years. He settled upon something simple: "I miss you." Then he returned to the car to meet up with Mary.

They held hands and talked around the subject of what they had done together, but she appeared to be at ease with the former charge in John's life now. John wondered how long it would be before a slow lull in interesting news would bring discrediting and slandering Sherlock back into the mainstream, and he wondered if this time he might have someone else to fight the battle for Sherlock's honor with him.

Once they pulled into their designated parking space and had picked up their mail from the front desk, Mary leaned into John, teasing her lips along the edge of his ear. He felt himself shudder, grasping the side of his pants and urging himself to not get so turned on in public. The wait for the elevator was excruciatingly long as Mary timidly worked her fingers under the edge of his jump, feather light at the edge of his hips. Practically shoving her into the open elevator, he slammed the door closed button repeatedly until they were alone together. He took her face in his hands, his tongue darting into her soft lips and tasting her tea with milk and one sugar. John took the moment before the door opened to press his growing erection against her, provoking a small moan from her throat.

They reached the landing, and Mary frantically worked to get the door open. Inside the flat, John began to remove his clothes as Mary moved across the room to deposit their mail on their coffee table. He removed his jumper and the shirt below in one fluid movement and turned to allow her to view him teasing his erection from his pants.

But Mary who moments before was pressing herself against him, held an envelope in trembling one trembling hand and a single luminescent pearl in the other. Her face said fear.

oOoOoOo

Mycroft tapped his fingers impatiently on the table as Sherlock absorbed the notes he provided him over tea. Sherlock's eyes moved over the page, applying the information in every possible scenario he could imagine. Mycroft cleared his throat, "Will you take...the case?" He hesitated with the last words, worrying over giving his brother the wrong sort of inclinations.

"Of course." Sherlock flashed him a brilliant smile. "We have work to do, Mycroft."

Just over 26 hours later, Sherlock and Mycroft peered on as their disgruntled neighbor Mr. Melas was loaded into an ambulance with the corpse of his fellow victim. Mycroft offered a nod in his direction before turning to address his brother, dressed in a cheaply made suit with his hair slicked back and adorned with horn rimmed glasses. "Turns out that waiting for the warrant might have been an error on my behalf."

Sherlock looked over Mycroft's head as the firefighters attempted to put out the steadily growing blaze. "Of course you should have. That was my recommendation after all. Catching the culprit was not as important as your career. I expected no less, Mycroft. You're not used to legwork, ultimately."

They heard sirens in the distance which silenced the beginning of their fight. Mycroft grasped Sherlock's arm suddenly as the hoards from Scotland Yard showed up, "You need to leave. I didn't expect this sort of police presence. You should go home and allow me to handle the police."

"Nonsense." Sherlock jerked his arm out of Mycroft's grasp. "Just Anderson's incompetence could ruin our chances of ever finding the man responsible for the kidnapping and murder of those people. Don't you want to know what happened?"

He lowered his voice, "No, Sherlock, I do not care if it means undoing two years worth of covering your tracks. Not today. Go home."

Sherlock turned from his brother, moving toward the unmarked car that pulled up to return him to the estate. He opened the door, taking another wistful glance at the crime scene. Long enough to see Lestrade clamber out of the car and take notice of Mycroft and the impossibly tall and lanky man get into the car. His chest sank, and he climbed into the car quickly, telling himself there could be no way Lestrade could see him from that far or through all that smoke.

Once locked up in his posh prison once more, Sherlock paced ferociously, covering the case from multiple angles in his mind. _I am Mr. Melas, bound and gagged. What does Beckenham smell like? Sound like? Look like? How is my Greek? How is the kidnapper's Greek? I am Paul, dead in the body bag. Why was my property so important? Who would want it? I am the angry girl, missing from the final scene. Who were these people to me? What could I provide? I am the culprit, a mystery thanks to bureaucracy. Paul and the girl, not lovers. Siblings. Mr. Melas said so. Greek, by the last name. The interpreter. The property. A personal crime. A husband? The girl and Paul shared a last name. Not husband, boyfriend._

The door opened, and Sherlock rushed to meet Mycroft, "It was the girl's boyfriend. She is gone. We can assume she might take care of it, though you should tail her to make sure she is efficient."

His steely eyes met not just Mycroft's but also a faint looking Lestrade's as he stood there completely frazzled in his dressing gown. Mycroft slammed the door and dropped his suitcase on the ground, "Can't you keep out of sight for once?"

Sherlock shook his head, grateful for Lestrade's radio silence as he appeared to gasp for breath. He walked up, shook his hand briskly, and pulled him into the sitting room. Once Lestrade sat on the couch, still unable to process the sight of him, Sherlock turned to Mycroft, "Tea. I think this will require a lot of it."

Half an hour later, Lestrade regained his ability to speak and held tightly onto the fine teacup as he looked Sherlock over, "I don't care how. I don't really care why. But this makes you the biggest arsehole to walk the Earth. No one has the right to die like that to escape trial, Sherlock. Not even you."

"Let's drop the pretense of your job. I've been informed of your work, Lestrade. Your temporary shift to the side of the incompetent. The loss your position. And what did you spend all of it doing? Clearing my name in the cases we worked on. You received backpay and a nice raise to return to your post. I helped you, Lestrade. I was found innocent by most accounts. There is no trial to stand. There never was." Sherlock took a sip of tea, sitting it gingerly on a side table before returning his gaze to Lestrade.

"Still, and I don't really want to know where you got all this information, why not come back, Sherlock? Prove your innocence? Return to 221B? Return to your home?" Lestrade ran his fingers through his greying hair. "Just holy fuck. Who knows about this exactly?"

"Mycroft knows. I returned here that evening and had a nice chat with him about sharing personal information with psychopaths. God knows he didn't take it to heart." Sherlock offered a cursory grin, "And Molly Hooper, from the morgue. She helped me disappear."

Lestrade raised a hand, stopping Sherlock's explanation of the fall, "I don't care to know, Sherlock. But why not John?"

Sherlock appeared confused by the question, "Why not John, what? He would have been of little to no use in faking my death. Abhorrent actor, John is. I needed him to believe I was gone to solidify my suicide, to rid this world of Moriarty."

Lestrade shook his head, "So you never told him? Do you know anything of him now? Or of his life after you made that sorry decision?"

"Of course I do. He invited Mycroft to his wedding with a certain Ms. Mary. He has moved on into domestic bliss."

Lestrade laughed, "Hardly, Sherlock. I saw him this evening. Apparently, Mr. Morstan received what he believes is a threat in the mail. She has been receiving them since her father, Captain Arthur Morstan, died in 1991 during the Gulf War."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair, "What type of threats?"

Silent until this moment, Mycroft snapped to attention, "Absolutely not, Sherlock. You are not to get involved in this type of work when we are so close to getting you settled. Especially in conjunction with your former...partner."

Lestrade sucked in his tea violently at the mention of the long questioned relation between John and Sherlock and choked out, "It might be too intimate, Sherlock, with you needing to start your new life and all. Still figure you should at least send him a postcard when you get to Rio."

Sherlock stood up, opening the door and gesturing for Mycroft to leave, "The last time I checked Greg," he winced at the commonality of using Lestrade's given name, "was a personal acquaintance of mine, and I am a British citizen perfectly capable of denying the government's help in maintaining my safety."

Mycroft moved to argue, but Sherlock interrupted him, "Hush, Mycroft. Go grab something to eat, and let the more industrious people talk. No worries, once I know John and his new beau are assured a safe life of domestic bliss, I will accept your convoluted new life of anonymity."

After Mycroft left in a huff of displeasure, Sherlock returned to sit in front of Greg, "What type of threat?"

Lestrade pulled out his phone and offered it to Sherlock, "Pearls. Once a year in the mail since her father's death."

Sherlock looked through the modicum of information before offering Lestrade a look of glee, "So, _Greg, _ever wondered what it's like to work with Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and downed his tea, "Not in the least bit."


End file.
